THE SILENCE OF THE SEA (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1947)
By grunes
Jean-Pierre Melville’s (Grumbach’s) stunning debut is an adaptation of the short story by Vercors, “Le silence de la mer.” Static shots and short pans of a countryside village appear under a motionless, silent sky punctuated by cirrus clouds—on one level, the eternal “sea” of the title. It is 1941, and this is Occupied France. A German officer takes up residence in the home of an elderly man and his niece, who remain silent to him, the man at his pipe, his niece at her knitting, as the officer each evening fills the silence with his family history and professions of love for France. (He loves French literature as much as he does German music.) Even his appearance in civilian dress cannot shake the silence of the sea.
The uncle’s voiceover turns the film into a journey into the recent past. The film is haunted by the humiliation of France’s occupation and by the sheer exercise of historical memory, where individual recollection merges with the “sea” of national experience. Similarly, Melville haunts the past, shooting his film in the very house that Vercors chose as the setting for his story. The ticking of a clock and the officer’s (in effect) monologues, by their interruptions, underscore the silence of the sea.
Appearing mute at middle-distance in a darkened doorway, the villager represents conscience, while his niece, whom the officer pointlessly loves, embodies the unyielding soul of France.
The naive officer believes that Germany’s occupation of France is forging a benign connection between both countries. The film records his disillusionment. Melville anticipates this with a brusque cut: after the sentimental officer waxes about how “the city” opens the German heart, Melville shows the German assault on Paris.
Jean-Marie Robian and Nicole Stéphane beautifully play uncle and niece.
THE SILENCE OF THE SEA (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1947)
By grunesJean-Pierre Melville’s (Grumbach’s) stunning debut is an adaptation of the short story by Vercors, “Le silence de la mer.” Static shots and short pans of a countryside village appear under a motionless, silent sky punctuated by cirrus clouds—on one level, the eternal “sea” of the title. It is 1941, and this is Occupied France. A German officer takes up residence in the home of an elderly man and his niece, who remain silent to him, the man at his pipe, his niece at her knitting, as the officer each evening fills the silence with his family history and professions of love for France. (He loves French literature as much as he does German music.) Even his appearance in civilian dress cannot shake the silence of the sea.
The uncle’s voiceover turns the film into a journey into the recent past. The film is haunted by the humiliation of France’s occupation and by the sheer exercise of historical memory, where individual recollection merges with the “sea” of national experience. Similarly, Melville haunts the past, shooting his film in the very house that Vercors chose as the setting for his story. The ticking of a clock and the officer’s (in effect) monologues, by their interruptions, underscore the silence of the sea.
Appearing mute at middle-distance in a darkened doorway, the villager represents conscience, while his niece, whom the officer pointlessly loves, embodies the unyielding soul of France.
The naive officer believes that Germany’s occupation of France is forging a benign connection between both countries. The film records his disillusionment. Melville anticipates this with a brusque cut: after the sentimental officer waxes about how “the city” opens the German heart, Melville shows the German assault on Paris.
Jean-Marie Robian and Nicole Stéphane beautifully play uncle and niece.
Tags: Jean-Pierre Melville
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